


He should've stayed at home instead

by sidekiqs



Series: be more chill | oneshots [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Sidekiqs, Song: Michael in the Bathroom, anyway, obligatory michael in the bathroom fic, sorry if this is boring and shite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:48:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11100123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidekiqs/pseuds/sidekiqs
Summary: He mentally debated whether or not if he should leave--because he clearly wasn’t wanted here--or if he should stay.He decided on the latter. It would pass, right? Right?---here's a michael in the bathroom fic.this was more of a character study tbh.





	He should've stayed at home instead

He was in someone’s bathroom, shaking and hugging his knees as he cried.

God, he really was pathetic.

Through shallow, frantic breaths, he tried to piece together the events leading up to his breakdown, despite his mind being clouded greatly by alcohol.

Jeremy had _yelled_ at him. His best friend yelled at him. Jeremy never yelled at anyone–at least, not like that–no matter the situation. Hell, before this, Michael didn’t even know if he could!

Even worse, he insulted Michael. Sure, he only called him a loser, but that hit him hard. He’d be fine if Rich called him that, but Jeremy? He was petrified.

It made him think if Jeremy kept talking about him behind his back, laughing at every single one of his mistakes to (what seems to be) the entire school.

He mentally debated whether or not if he should leave (which he decided was too risky, since the tears would attract attention, which in turn, would cause people to stare, and he didn’t think he could handle that), because he clearly wasn’t wanted here, or if he should stay. He decided on the latter.

It would pass, right? Right?

Now, he was stuck in this bathroom for the time being, too much of a coward to face his best friend (Were they still even friends?) again, if he’d only treat him like utter crap. He pressed his back against the wall even more, the unnaturally cold tiles sending a chill up his spine; he didn’t mind.

He also didn’t mind that he (subconsciously) started gnawing at the flesh of his right hand, chewing off bits and pieces of his skin, until he tasted copper. He sputtered out a mix of saliva and blood onto the floor next to him as he coughed and wheezed, trying to get sufficient air in his lungs again. After a few moments, he managed to level out his breathing (still erratic, but he tried). And _**fuck**_ , he wished Jeremy was here; maybe he could’ve calmed him down, make him feel even the tiniest bit okay. He wouldn’t even blame him for causing–whatever **this** is–in the first place!

‘Ha, who was he kidding?’ He snickered spitefully, ‘Wishful thinking.’

Then, he wondered: Was it his fault? Did he do something wrong? Did he deserve it? ( ~~The answer was yes to all three~~ ).

It _was_ his fault for blocking the doorway in the first place. Jeremy had way better things to do. Party, socialize, be cool; all the things Michael couldn’t do, anyway. And he had been bothering him repeatedly, when it was clear Jeremy wanted _**nothing** _ to do with him anymore.

What was he? An obstacle for Jeremy? His happiness? He didn’t mean to! He just wanted Jeremy to be happy, even if it meant he wasn’t a part of it.

Michael watched the droplets of blood from his mutilated hand stain his clothes; darker blotches on dark fabric. He watched as the stain grew.

He had stopped crying, maybe, half an hour ago? He wasn’t sure, he just felt tired and numb instead.

* * *

It’s been hours, but it seemed like the party wouldn’t die down yet. Michael found enjoyment in picking the dirt and dried blood from underneath his nails; but you could only pick at your nails for so long before penultimately getting bored.

Why was he here, anyway? The person he came to see didn’t want to see him, and he’s been stuck inside the bathroom for what, a good two–three hours now? Why didn’t he just leave?

A muffled voice (Some girl’s, probably Brooke or Chloe, or something) came from outside the door.

‘Oh, right,’ he grimaced, ‘ _People_.’

She then started knocking, harshly, making the door rattle with every pound of her fist.

“ **Fuck off!** ” Michael yelled, before he quickly covered his mouth. He just _**swore**_ , for crying out loud. Thankfully, the girl left him alone after that.

He was now alone with his thoughts, once again, and somehow, he wondered whether or not Jeremy had found someone else; someone who was infinitely better than him. He choked back another sob, a weak cry escaping his throat instead.

_He didn’t want to be replaced. Oh God._

Would Jeremy just get rid of him like that? Was he not good enough to deserve his attention? Was he a bad friend? Did Jeremy use him? He let his thoughts run wild as he tried to calm himself down again.

‘ _‘s the li’ of day tha’ shows me how~, an’ when the night falls! Loneliness calls…_ ’ Another girl, not the one from before, slurred the lyrics to a song Michael knew, her voice loud and clear (for a drunk person). Even through the door, he could hear the speakers blasting downstairs.

“Oh, I wanna dance with somebody…” He hummed along in a pitiful attempt to calm himself down.

( ~~It didn't work.~~ )

He kept humming to himself, and soon enough, he finished the entire song.

‘This should’ve been a–a duet!’ Michael chuckled bitterly at the thought. He quit laughing once he felt his stomach churn.

(‘ _The curse of being a lightweight,_ ’ he mused.)

He leaned his head over to the bathtub, and threw up. It was mostly bile, since he didn’t eat anything, just drank a couple of beers.

He felt absolutely horrible as he gagged, trying to force himself to vomit.

Afterwards, he wiped his mouth with his bloodied sweater sleeve. He stood up, staggering, and made it to the sink. He could feel the tears coming again as he turned the handle to lukewarm. He cupped his hand underneath the tap, before bringing it up to his mouth. He swished the water around, rinsing out whatever bile was left, then spat it out.

He glanced at the mirror, and felt disgusted by himself. He wipes his cheeks forcefully with his sweater sleeve, tears and snot covered the now-ruined fabric (‘ _Gross_ ,’ he thought), hoping it was convincing enough.

There was someone frantically knocking on the door, like an eight-eight time signature; constant, but fast, yelling at him to hurry up. He told them he’d be out soon, his voice cracking from exhaustion (or from sobbing, he didn’t know). He could barely hear their muffled ‘okay’ from the other side as they ran off.

He glanced back at the mirror, still feeling a bit disgusted at his appearance.

Everyone outside was yelling, _loudly_ , and it gave him a headache.

He wished that he didn’t even go; he wished he didn’t even meet Jeremy at that dumb housewarming party when he was five. Hell, he hated his parents right now for even letting him **live**.

“Are you happy?” Michael mocked the way his parents asked him, more than a decade ago, as he nodded, a big grin on his face, before running off back to his new friend. He huffed.

How funny, they met at a party, then left each other at another party, only nearly twelve years apart. He chuckled dryly at the thought.

Suddenly, it felt like everything was warm. _Too warm_ , actually. Michael filled the sink with cold water, and removed his glasses, before splashing some onto his face. Sure, it spilled all over his sweater, but he could live with it.

He looked in the mirror again, his image a bit more blurry than usual. One thing didn’t change though: He was still sad; still lonely. He was still the guy who’s best friend left him alone at a bathroom.

And he realized something, too: Maybe they weren’t meant to be friends at all in the first place.

 Really, the only reason they even met up was because his parents had to meet the neighbors–those being Jeremy’s family–while he was left alone with no one else to talk to; who else, other than the neighbor’s kid?

 Then, he realized something else: _smoke was pouring in from beneath the door_.

 He didn’t panic; didn’t fear for his life, instead, he just accepted it. He had no way out, anyway. The bathroom didn’t have a window to crawl out through, and the fire was already too close to even risk running out. He could see a bright orange-yellow light flicker amidst all the smoke.

 He didn’t care. Jeremy didn’t, at least, not anymore; why should he?

 He sat down on the cold tiles, watching the smoke rise to the ceiling. He watched as the flames engulfed the door, slowly turning it into nothing but ash.

 He didn’t flinch when the flames started licking his skin; he moved away slightly, though. He wanted to watch the room burn.

 “What a great party,” he coughed weakly, the smoke filling his already tired lungs, before passing out. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> criticism? was it bland? boring? good or decent, or not?
> 
> i'm still trying to learn how to write decently.
> 
> thanks.


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